Recognition
Feb. 28th, 2007 06:29 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
astrablue.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
picfor1000Title: Recognition
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
astrablue
Fandom: Dead Like Me, BtVS/AtS, The 4400 - yes, all of those together. I think it works.
Summary: One old mission church brings some unusual people together. Vignette-ish, but with a common thread.
Note: I've tried adding the other shows to the tags but LJ is being troublesome. Alas.
The small votives flickered in the light afternoon breeze that wafted in through the open door. The ever-present sarcasm evanesced from George’s thoughts as the tranquility of the chapel enveloped her.
It was an old mission on the coast, tucked away in evergreen trees and sandy soil, away from casual tourists, but still accessible for those who, like George, had missions of their own.
The votives were everywhere, a hundred prayers sent up to heaven under the watchful eyes of an unknown saint. George sighed and the flames undulated in reaction, staying lit against the small wind of her breath.
The Post-it gave an ETD of 2:47pm.
George sat down in a nearby pew and waited.
Churches used to be built for her, with vast altars for the sole purpose of worshipping her. She remembered the legions of demons who bent to her will.
Churches in this world used to make her uncomfortable, so much so that she would never go near them, much less in them. Yet here she was, waiting to meet up with someone, only feet from the carven image of a saint – one not nearly as all-powerful as she had been – and she was not feeling ill. She must be getting soft.
She was there for Willow. She’d been chasing the memories - Fred’s memories – ever since that last final battle.
She remembered Willow’s power – it called out to her like it had called out to Fred all those years ago. She remembered the smile and the shining eyes.
Illyria heard steps and looked up.
Willow looked down at Illyria: it was Fred and it wasn’t. She remembered the connection she’d had with Fred those years ago. It was that connection that had brought her to this place to meet with the being who walked around in Fred’s shell. She felt a pang at the loss of what could have been, and a curiosity at what could be.
She sat down beside Illyria. They began to talk.
Shawn wandered into the chapel. He’d been coming in almost every week since he’d retreated to the coast. His recovery from Isabelle’s interrogation had been slow and painful. Against the wishes of his family, he’d retreated here, needing time alone to think about all that had happened.
He had enjoyed the serenity of the ocean and the peace within the chapel. The monks kept to themselves mostly, leaving the chapel open for the occasional visitor. Shawn wasn’t particularly religious, but something about the atmosphere of penance and reconciliation at the mission touched him and kept bringing him back week after week.
He hadn’t used his powers since the interrogation, not in Seattle nor in the sleepy coastal town. The tourists were in and out each weekend and between the weekends, it was just Shawn and the year-round fishermen and shop-owners. None of them seemed to know who he was. It was better that way.
He was surprised to see people inside the chapel today. One girl alone, and two women together. He sighed, and sat down, and thought.
The old woman hobbled in, her cane softly knocking on the stone tiles of the floor. She passed Shawn, and Willow and Illyria, and finally George before kneeling down, popping knees and ankles, in front of the saint. Making the sign of the cross, she began to pray, hushed words echoing in the quiet chapel.
George was uneasy. It was 2:40 and she still didn’t know who her reap was.
Sighing, she got up and went over to the votives, taking a long matchstick and lighting a votive of her own. Just as she was about to ask the old woman where she could find the name on her Post-it, the woman turned and looked straight at George. “You’re looking for me, Georgia,” she said clearly, but quietly.
George was startled. “How –?”
“I know because I can see things and I can see into people. You’re here for me.”
“But-- ”
“Shh, child. Just let me finish my prayers.”
George was still for a moment. This was nothing like any of her other reaps, but what else was she going to do? She got up, but before she turned to return to her pew, she brushed her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.
She’d done her job. Now she just had to wait.
In retrospect, they’d all seen it coming, but had no power to stop it.
Illyria had seen George brush her hand on the woman. She recognized George for what she was and knew what was about to occur. She watched, waiting.
Shawn saw the old woman struggle to her feet from the stone floor. He half-rose to help her up, but something held him back.
Willow saw her foot hit the upturned corner of an old floor tile. She started to call out a warning, but her voice died in her throat.
It happened so fast. The old woman tripped and fell forward, her cane flying out from her hand, her feet sweeping underneath her, her head knocking against the corner of a wooden pew.
She was crumpled on the ground, not moving, not moaning.
They surrounded her, gently turning her over. Shawn moved his hands over her, but stopped, realizing that it wasn’t the right moment for him.
Willow felt her pulse – nothing. She’d only knocked her head. How could she be dead already? A wave of helplessness washed over her. So many supernatural deaths, and this one, this ordinary accidental death, affected her more than most of the others.
Illyria watched as George rose and walked over to the votives.
The old woman’s spirit crossed herself one more time, gazing at the small flames with a small smile.
She looked at George, who was waiting just behind her. “It’s time for me to go now,” she said, and they walked together out of the chapel, unnoticed by Willow or Shawn.
Only Illyria saw them both leave. She turned back to Willow and took her hand.
Fin
Author:
astrablueFandom: Dead Like Me, BtVS/AtS, The 4400 - yes, all of those together. I think it works.
Summary: One old mission church brings some unusual people together. Vignette-ish, but with a common thread.
Note: I've tried adding the other shows to the tags but LJ is being troublesome. Alas.
The small votives flickered in the light afternoon breeze that wafted in through the open door. The ever-present sarcasm evanesced from George’s thoughts as the tranquility of the chapel enveloped her.
It was an old mission on the coast, tucked away in evergreen trees and sandy soil, away from casual tourists, but still accessible for those who, like George, had missions of their own.
The votives were everywhere, a hundred prayers sent up to heaven under the watchful eyes of an unknown saint. George sighed and the flames undulated in reaction, staying lit against the small wind of her breath.
The Post-it gave an ETD of 2:47pm.
George sat down in a nearby pew and waited.
Churches used to be built for her, with vast altars for the sole purpose of worshipping her. She remembered the legions of demons who bent to her will.
Churches in this world used to make her uncomfortable, so much so that she would never go near them, much less in them. Yet here she was, waiting to meet up with someone, only feet from the carven image of a saint – one not nearly as all-powerful as she had been – and she was not feeling ill. She must be getting soft.
She was there for Willow. She’d been chasing the memories - Fred’s memories – ever since that last final battle.
She remembered Willow’s power – it called out to her like it had called out to Fred all those years ago. She remembered the smile and the shining eyes.
Illyria heard steps and looked up.
Willow looked down at Illyria: it was Fred and it wasn’t. She remembered the connection she’d had with Fred those years ago. It was that connection that had brought her to this place to meet with the being who walked around in Fred’s shell. She felt a pang at the loss of what could have been, and a curiosity at what could be.
She sat down beside Illyria. They began to talk.
Shawn wandered into the chapel. He’d been coming in almost every week since he’d retreated to the coast. His recovery from Isabelle’s interrogation had been slow and painful. Against the wishes of his family, he’d retreated here, needing time alone to think about all that had happened.
He had enjoyed the serenity of the ocean and the peace within the chapel. The monks kept to themselves mostly, leaving the chapel open for the occasional visitor. Shawn wasn’t particularly religious, but something about the atmosphere of penance and reconciliation at the mission touched him and kept bringing him back week after week.
He hadn’t used his powers since the interrogation, not in Seattle nor in the sleepy coastal town. The tourists were in and out each weekend and between the weekends, it was just Shawn and the year-round fishermen and shop-owners. None of them seemed to know who he was. It was better that way.
He was surprised to see people inside the chapel today. One girl alone, and two women together. He sighed, and sat down, and thought.
The old woman hobbled in, her cane softly knocking on the stone tiles of the floor. She passed Shawn, and Willow and Illyria, and finally George before kneeling down, popping knees and ankles, in front of the saint. Making the sign of the cross, she began to pray, hushed words echoing in the quiet chapel.
George was uneasy. It was 2:40 and she still didn’t know who her reap was.
Sighing, she got up and went over to the votives, taking a long matchstick and lighting a votive of her own. Just as she was about to ask the old woman where she could find the name on her Post-it, the woman turned and looked straight at George. “You’re looking for me, Georgia,” she said clearly, but quietly.
George was startled. “How –?”
“I know because I can see things and I can see into people. You’re here for me.”
“But-- ”
“Shh, child. Just let me finish my prayers.”
George was still for a moment. This was nothing like any of her other reaps, but what else was she going to do? She got up, but before she turned to return to her pew, she brushed her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.
She’d done her job. Now she just had to wait.
In retrospect, they’d all seen it coming, but had no power to stop it.
Illyria had seen George brush her hand on the woman. She recognized George for what she was and knew what was about to occur. She watched, waiting.
Shawn saw the old woman struggle to her feet from the stone floor. He half-rose to help her up, but something held him back.
Willow saw her foot hit the upturned corner of an old floor tile. She started to call out a warning, but her voice died in her throat.
It happened so fast. The old woman tripped and fell forward, her cane flying out from her hand, her feet sweeping underneath her, her head knocking against the corner of a wooden pew.
She was crumpled on the ground, not moving, not moaning.
They surrounded her, gently turning her over. Shawn moved his hands over her, but stopped, realizing that it wasn’t the right moment for him.
Willow felt her pulse – nothing. She’d only knocked her head. How could she be dead already? A wave of helplessness washed over her. So many supernatural deaths, and this one, this ordinary accidental death, affected her more than most of the others.
Illyria watched as George rose and walked over to the votives.
The old woman’s spirit crossed herself one more time, gazing at the small flames with a small smile.
She looked at George, who was waiting just behind her. “It’s time for me to go now,” she said, and they walked together out of the chapel, unnoticed by Willow or Shawn.
Only Illyria saw them both leave. She turned back to Willow and took her hand.
Fin
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}